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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30098154">put your sweet hand in mine</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/notvasi/pseuds/notvasi'>notvasi</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adult Draco Malfoy, Adult Ginny Weasley, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, Past Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Psychological Trauma, Quidditch Player Ginny Weasley, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:35:26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,019</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30098154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/notvasi/pseuds/notvasi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ginny first came across him, she had expected to relish in his misery. </p><p>Set two years Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy has spent more than enough time drowning his sorrows in vodka and women on his parents' dime.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Draco Malfoy/Ginny Weasley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Fuck,” he mumbled. His cluttered key ring slipped from his fingertips, falling to the ground in slow motion. The dull throb of bass from the crowded London nightclub still reverberated in his ear drums and fuck, oh fuck, he was so dizzy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bent over, trying to kneel down for his keys. His vision doubled, two sets of keys mocked him from their resting place on the concrete below. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They might as well have been at the bottom of the Mariana Trench they were so impossibly far away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His stomach gurgled then, the sting of the copious amounts of vodka he had enjoyed burned up in his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ah,” Draco said weakly, trying to will the bile back down. He squeezed his steel grey eyes shut, watery tears formed at the corners. His pale, thin fingers wrapped around his kneecaps in an attempt to steady himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wave of nausea passed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he had learned anything in the past two years, it was how to suppress vomiting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Groaning, he snatched the key ring off of the ground and fumbled for the key to his flat. It was gold and somewhat short, which set it apart from the plentiful silver keys that called the crowded keyring home. They were a nuisance, but each key held sentimental value in a way as trophies of former lovers during brief stays in Manchester, Sheffield and Birmingham before his move to London. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There you are,” he slurred, gripping the golden key and aiming it for the keyhole. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t fit. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, Madame Pompfrey’s twat - open.” He jiggled at the doorknob with desperation. All he wanted was to roll into bed and conk out. He wanted to forget, wanted to erase all of the memories of the snobbish Muggle girls who had declined his invitations to come back to his flat. </span>
</p><p><span>He was grateful, though, that in his drunken stupor he hadn’t procured his wand as a means to impress them. The last time he had attempted to win over a girl by this method an entire neighborhood in Wales had to be </span><em><span>Obliviate</span></em><span>-d</span> <span>by the Ministry. </span></p><p>
  <span>“You’re on the wrong floor, Malfoy.” a cold female voice floated down the hallway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If he hadn’t thought the word enough times already at his current predicament, his inner self said it again. Fuck.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her red hair was parted to the side and pulled away from her face with a barrette. She wore a dark coat over a black dress, a grey cashmere scarf was draped delicately around her neck. A sopping wet umbrella was held by its string, flinging droplets of water onto the thin black tights that clung to her calves. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was shorter than he remembered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked older too, though he supposed that was only natural. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t too unusual that he would find himself living in the same flats as Ginny Weasley. The landlord, he knew, was a Squib who took both Galleons as well as Muggle money. He had spotted a few other wizards and witches that he recognized vaguely, though he had never expected to come across someone so...close to home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck, he would have to write to his mother. She would be disappointed in his request to move again on such short notice but he could not bear the thought of living just one floor below Ginny Weasley. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guilt disrupted his raw stomach more than the alcohol did. It sobered him up instantly, much to his disappointment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That would explain why this key doesn’t work. It is the right key, you see.” He explained, holding up the golden key. He thought that he sounded as sober as humanly possible. To Ginny, he sounded like a complete and utter mess. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see.” She said flatly. How he could manage to find any key amongst the horde of keys that clattered against one another as he held them was a miracle to her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where have you been at? It’s late.” Draco asked, leaning against the door of not-his-flat. A false smile spread across his face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He didn’t know how to talk to her or better yet, how to get out of this situation. Not after - no. He would </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>think about that day. Or that year, for that matter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s none of your business.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His smile faltered, his mask slipped. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right, Ginny Weasley would hate him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course she would hate him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two years was not nearly enough time to heal the wounds that he had contributed to. The wounds that he had actively helped to inflict upon her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had only tried to see if - no, he hadn’t even tried. He just needed to get past her. He needed to somehow make it down the two sets of stairs and then he was home free to his flat. He would take another shot from the half-empty bottle at his bedside and forget that this ever happened. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Staircase is that way,” Ginny said, pointing behind herself. He noticed that her fingers were neatly manicured with olive green polish. Her well-kept appearance was so... different than the tomboy he had seen from afar at Hogwarts. “You best get off of that door too. You’re probably scaring old Edith.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco frowned and pulled away from the door. It had been his crutch. Without it he wobbled to the right, his long legs crossed over one another sending him toppling to the ground. Black dress shoes in the air, he lay flat on his back, silver-blonde hair fell into his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he laughed. He laughed harder than he had laughed in years. Oh, the humanity. What terrible suffering it was to be so defenseless and in the company of a young woman he had betrayed so horribly when the roles were reversed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt like a bug underneath her heel, caught in the act of his own misery. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was so painfully funny to him the idea that she would report this encounter back to Potter. Though, the idea that she would reveal the condition that he was in to the Chosen One as she crawled into his bed revolted him. If Potter lived here too - if they were living </span>
  <em>
    <span>together</span>
  </em>
  <span> - he would definitely have to move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ginny stood over him, staring down at Draco’s tomato red face. Her brown eyes were cold, unfeeling. “As much as I would like to watch you tumble down those stairs, you look like you need help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head and flung his arms forward, coming to a sitting position. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think I can manage it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Suit yourself.” She said, eyeing him skeptically as the tall blonde rose to his unsteady feet. He slinked toward the stairs, still laughing like an imbecile along the way. Shaky pale hands gripped the railing for dear life as he descended the staircase. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He prayed to whatever God was out there that he didn’t fall. He couldn’t risk further embarrassment, it would kill him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good night, Malfoy.” Ginny called out, her voice was lilted, almost like a song.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. G’nite. ” Draco said drunkenly, as he made it past the first landing and out of her view. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When she first came across him, she had expected to relish in his misery. </p><p>But as Ginny stripped out of her work clothes, she felt nothing but sadness for the husk of a man that she had encountered in the hallway. </p><p>It made some sense to her that Draco would be absolutely floundering. His high-status family had lost their place in society. The Malfoys had switched allegiances so last minute that while they had been spared from imprisonment, they weren’t exactly involved on the winning side enough to return to… normal. </p><p>Had anyone returned to normal?</p><p>No, definitely not at first. </p><p>But from what she knew, Ginny would be considered late to the game on that front.</p><p>Too many souls had been lost in the war for an immediate return to normal, but after about a year things got better for most part. </p><p>The pain started to ease, the uncomfortable memories started to fade as brains healed from traumatic experiences, they rebuilt and recovered.</p><p>Christmas had been like pulling teeth without Fred and Remus and Tonks. Ginny had held her bawling mother for two weeks before and two weeks after the dreaded holiday, but after that bandaid was ripped off things fell into place. </p><p>Fleur was pregnant, which was a blessing and a curse. It gave her mother something to endlessly squabble about that wasn’t her own sadness. The only downside was that now she wouldn’t let up on any of the other Weasley siblings to produce grandkids. </p><p>She was due soon. Ginny made a mental note to write her sister-in-law back before bed. They had grown quite close throughout her pregnancy as penpals, despite their five year age difference. She was one of two people that Ginny allowed to contact her.</p><p>People were getting happier. Lives were marching on. Time continued whether Ginny wanted it to or not. Ron and Hermione had grown impossibly close - much to Ginny’s surprise, her brutish brother had become quite the romantic. </p><p>Fuck, if only she were more like Hermione she wouldn’t be struggling so.</p><p>She sighed, pulling her notepad from the pocket of her coat and tossed it on the small nightstand next to her bed. Her story was garbage but she had already submitted it to her superior via the magic-infused notepad. It was all she had. The game tonight was a dreadfully boring Quidditch match.</p><p>Who was she kidding? She wasn’t Hermione. Writing was never her thing - she could manage defensive magic and a Quaffle handily. That was about it. </p><p>A dark part of her mind suspected that her connection to Harry had gotten her the job at the Daily Prophet in the first place. Now that they were no longer an item, she was sure to get sacked before too long. </p><p>Each article she wrote she felt like the ice beneath her feet grew thinner and thinner.</p><p>It was only a matter of time before she fell through the ice. </p><p>Ginny tossed her dress and overcoat onto the ground, adding it to the ever-growing pile of laundry near her bed. In exchange, she snatched an oversized t-shirt from the pile that she had worn twice already.  Her apartment was a mess. As much as she had grown to love the intricate cleaning charms that her mother performed, something about cleaning up after herself had grown difficult lately. It brought her no great joy and all she wanted to do was sleep.</p><p>Her bed was plain, a light grey comforter disrupted by many nights of restless sleep. The apartment was fully furnished - not at all her style. It was constructed of a more modern, Muggle design composed of whites and greys and dark wood. If she was to decorate her own home, she would make it just like the home that she grew up in. Earthy tones and cherry wood were her favorite - they reminded her of the Burrow. </p><p>But not this apartment. </p><p>She had chosen this apartment with some Galleons that Harry had lent her specifically to not remind her of the Burrow. It was working. </p><p>Ginny cringed at the thought of the loan. She would pay back every Knut of it, she swore to herself that she would. It pained her to remain attached to Harry in such a subservient way after their history. </p><p>She did the math in her head as she slid into bed. A trip to Gringotts would confirm her suspicions, but she figured she would need another six paychecks in order to make good on the loan. That, or a promotion would cover the amount. Six paychecks, twelve weeks, four months. Maybe less if she got some birthday money - no, it was April and her birthday was in August. </p><p>Not soon enough. </p><p>No, she would need to come up with some way to speed up that timeline. </p><p>It wasn’t that she hated Harry. She could never hate him. He was still her friend. It was only that he had wanted so much from her when she had so little to offer him. But still the idea of him made her want to crawl into someone else’s skin.</p><p>Ron and Hermione’s love drunk haze protected them from most of the grief and the hardship that came with winning the war. They relied on each other, they worked through the pain together as a team. Their love was genuine, strong and successful. Together, they formed a solid foundation for a relationship that blew everyone away.</p><p>Harry wanted that and for a moment, Ginny had too. But the kisses never took away from her loss. The lavish gifts never could replace the hole in her heart left by that fateful May day. The sweet nothings never brought her brother back.</p><p>Still, she said that she loved him too, to heal him, to help him. She held him when he woke from nightmare after nightmare. When she woke from hers, she calmed herself, crying silent tears to avoid waking him and upsetting him. </p><p>All the while, she was digging herself a deeper and deeper hole. </p><p>None of it was Harry’s fault. Ginny knew the day that she returned his advances that she was a tool. She understood that he was not capable of being the same for her. What he didn’t know was how fragile she was, how little use he was going to get out of her. </p><p>After a year and a half, she broke. The illusion she had created shattered into a million pieces. She begged Harry for a loan to set her up in London and shut everyone out.</p><p>Six months had passed since then. </p><p>She answered owls from her mother and from Fleur. </p><p>No one else. </p><p> </p><p>_____________________</p><p> </p><p>Draco flopped back against the pillows after biting down the thick sting of liquor. He closed his bloodshot eyes. Fuck, how they burned. He wasn’t sure how long he had been awake by now. It was half past three in the morning. Maybe 30 hours? </p><p>Who knew.</p><p><br/>A subtle pop filled the room, one all too familiar to him. The sound of someone apparating into his bedroom. More importantly, the sound of someone skilled with apparation. There was only one person in the world that he knew who could apparate that quietly. </p><p>His grey eyes snapped open.</p><p>“Shout if you’re occupied!”  His mother stood at the foot of his bed, her thin hands covering both of her eyes. She was still in her day clothes despite the late hour. Her split dark and silver hair was perfectly coiffed. The signature spider earrings that she always wore were perched on her ears.</p><p>“Mum!” He protested. </p><p>“I can leave - if there’s a girl.” She squeaked, eyes still covered.</p><p>Draco rolled his eyes and huffed. There was no girl. He was still fully clothed at that. Perhaps too fully clothed, the tips of his dress shoes poked out underneath the covers. </p><p>“There is no girl.” He said, slyly kicking off his shoes and maneuvering to drop them onto the floor as quietly as he could. It was bad enough that his mother would see him in this state. The least he could do was minimize the damage. </p><p>Narcissa Malfoy snapped her hands to her sides, shoulders sagging with relief. “Thank the Heavens. I was worried for a second.”</p><p><br/>“You’ve been worried your whole life.” Draco mumbled, flinging his arm over his eyes. She had lit the lamp next to his bedside once more with a flick of her wand.</p><p>Narcissa wrinkled her nose as she approached her son. “You stink.”</p><p>Right of her to show up unannounced only to insult him. Typical of her, sure, but it never failed to annoy the ever-loving shit out of him. He ignored her, humming up a tune to fill his drunken mind. </p><p>“When will you stop, Draco?” She sighed, sitting on the bed by his side. Her hand reached for his, he flinched at the chill of her touch. “When will you stop this madness and come back home?”</p><p>Never.</p><p>Never again.</p><p>“I can’t go back there, mother.” </p><p>Too many memories. Too many deaths. Too much horror took place in the comfort of the home that he had grown up in. <strike>Mudbloods</strike> Muggle-borns collected and murdered within its walls. A Hogwarts professor mercilessly killed in the dining room where he had eaten all of his meals. </p><p>How Narcissa Malfoy could still refer to the <em> house </em> as <em> home </em> was beyond his comprehension. He couldn’t fathom sitting at that table another time. Not for Christmas, nor his mother’s birthday - not another happy memory could be created in that room with the stains of its past haunting him so. </p><p>“Draco, please.” She reached for his arm. “Your father and I miss you so.”</p><p>He uncovered his eyes, meeting her dark ones with doubt. “Does he speak now?”</p><p>A cruel question, an unfair one to ask her, but he didn’t care. His point was made and her silence answered his question. </p><p>Lucius Malfoy was still so paralyzed with fear in that torture chamber of a house that he was mute. He didn’t have to see his father to know what he was afraid of. There were members of the Dark Lord’s inner circle that believed that resurrection could be possible again.</p><p>His wife’s blatant betrayal of the Dark Lord and his own switching of sides would result in certain death. So he sat in his fortress, like a coward. Refusing to speak, refusing to sleep if not by the influence of a sleeping draught, while his wife picked up the pieces and his only son drank himself to ruin. </p><p>“Are you alright?” Narcissa asked, her lips pressed thin into a line.</p><p>A breathy laugh escaped his lips. Treacherous tears graced his eyes. </p><p>“Sure, mum.”</p><p>“I can’t bear to see you like this. I wish that you would -”</p><p>“-Get a job at least.” He finished her sentence. His mother had said these words to him a hundred times by now. No matter where he was, in different cities around the United Kingdom, in different bedrooms, with different flavors of liquor on his breath, they were always the same.</p><p>“Or a hobby.” Her voice was shrill, embarrassed. She played with a large silver ring on her index finger.</p><p>“Right. I’ve heard the speech.”</p><p>His mother frowned. He hated disappointing her, but there wasn’t much he could do. Sure, he <em> could </em> get a job but he would find himself sacked the very next day after sleeping in too long off a hangover. </p><p>So far he had managed to suffer without wounding the Malfoy family’s reputation any further than it already was. He envisioned it as a horribly mangled beast, stapled and sutured back together, for everyone could plainly see the scars that marred their family name. </p><p>Draco could only cause further harm. </p><p>And maybe he already had, now that Ginny Weasley had caught him in that fucking hallway. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Content warning for mild smut in the first half of the chapter.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I think I love you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Draco grinned like a wolf ready to devour a sheep. The plump lips at his ear tickled, making the soft hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The words were music to his ears. She didn’t love him, but she thought that she did. That was enough for him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The tan beauty reached for him, tugging gently at the hem of his black t-shirt, a meek request for him to remove it. No, no. That wouldn’t do. Draco had learned through his sampling that he preferred a woman with some authority - an equal. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No matter, he could still have fun. Maybe with a little bit of time, she would learn him. He blamed the Muggle media for teaching their women to be so easily submissive. Draco liked the thrill of the game.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nevertheless, he removed his shirt. Baring himself for her dark eyes to consume. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She was pretty, he especially liked her makeup. It showed some level of skill, an attention to detail. Her eyes were lined in dark liner that came out to what he learned they called a wing. Atop the thick line was a line of glitter following along. Under the pulsing lights in the nightclub, her dark eyes lit up. He could see her examining him from across the crowded venue. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By no means were her eyes her best feature. She was shapely, her figure was excellent and she exuded confidence. The dress she wore left little to the imagination.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Such a pity she wouldn’t fight him in the bedroom. What a disappointment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His hands began to roam, traveling from the soft skin of her knee to the bottom of her dress. He pushed it up slightly, making eye contact with her as he did so. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Is this alright?” He asked, forcing his voice to steady from a slur to a drawl. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Was it alright? He didn’t even know her name. It started with an S, maybe. He doubted that she knew his. He usually declined to give it out unless he needed to. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The dark haired woman next to him said yes. She was not as drunk as he was, he could tell. When he kissed her he could taste the familiar bite of tequila on her lips all the same. It unearthed a craving in him that he didn’t know he could have. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What he would give for tequila and lime right now. He drank it from her lips hungrily as if drinking from a glass. Fuck, he wanted a bottle now. He considered abandoning - Samantha was it? Something like that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, he’d lost the thought again. Kissing her was nice. Thus was the appeal of women, kissing someone made him forget who he was. For a moment in time he was just a body and some oxytocin melding together in blissful ignorance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Her tongue ran slowly along his top teeth - a feeling he did not like, snapping him out of his momentary high.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A bottle of tequila. That is what he wanted. He remembered now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He remembered too much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In an effort to discard the flickers of memory that gathered at the corners of his vision, Draco rolled his companion onto her back, pushing her dress up to her hips. His hand sloppily rubbed the outside of her lace underwear, bringing a gasp to her lips. He needed to be inside her. He needed to forget. He needed to stop the sound of the screams that were beginning to replace that familiar dull thud of bassy club music that so often clouded his mind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think I love you,” the dark haired beauty said once more, spreading her knees, inviting him in. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He buried his face in the crook of her neck, muffling his reply. “You love the idea of me.” Savannah? didn’t seem to mind his honesty. Perhaps this was the approach she took to lure men into her fly trap or maybe she was as blasted as he was. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He would be concerned if her words weren’t so foolish. He had said less than a hundred words to her. Other women had told him similar foolishness. Many of the women that he had gathered keys from had professed their love at one time or another. It never phased him, they never really knew him. They were flings, hooked on an idea, high on the drive of their own brain chemistry. It simply meant it was time for him to move on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Somewhere in his drunken fog his trousers had been discarded to the floor. The dark haired beauty beneath him was pulling him closer by his hips, digging her fingers in, urging him to enter her. He obliged without hesitation, the chemical rush took hold of him in its gentle arms, soothing away his pain. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His favorite temporary fix. The perfect combination. The numbing of alcohol paired with the elixir of the fairer sex. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He relished in his momentary euphoria, basking in it. He paid little attention to the woman beneath him other than making note of her continued enjoyment. His actions weren’t robotic, but he was going through the motions. Sex was like a recipe for him at this point, pleasure her, gain relief, find an excuse to get away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tonight his excuse was absolutely necessary. As his tongue explored her mouth he still tasted tequila.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck, he needed that bottle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>_________________________________________</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Another long disappointing game, another shitty half-assed story already submitted. It was four in the morning by the time the Quidditch match was over. Ginny apparated to the alleyway a block away from her flat, swearing up a storm in her own mind. It was raining again, but she didn’t bother to pull out her umbrella. She didn’t care if she got wet, she wanted to feel something. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She stopped outside of the covered entrance to her building to loiter near the outdoor ashtray and lit a cigarette. Glancing down at the ground, she noticed about a dozen discarded cigarette butts littered about. She checked to make sure that no one was around and transfigured them each into little rocks, one by one as she smoked. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, she thought. She had waited through that entire awful Quidditch match for this moment. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I enjoyed myself.” a woman’s voice came from within the building. The sound of high heels tapping against the tiled entryway floated closer to her, disturbing her peace. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m glad to hear that.” A familiar male voice. “I did as well.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ginny transfigured the last of the abandoned cigarettes as the doors were thrown open, smiling down at her work. She placed her boot over it, hoping to obscure the subtle flash of her magic from view. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A tall woman with long curly dark hair was attached to Draco Malfoy’s arm. Her skin was the color of honey, except for the redness that burned on her cheeks. Ginny was taken aback at how beautiful she was. She shouldn’t be surprised though, that Malfoy could bag beautiful women. He wasn’t bad looking himself, having long ago grown out of his awkwardness. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His grey eyes locked onto her own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She dropped her eyes to the ground, taking a long drag from her cigarette. She pretended that she didn’t know him, it was for the better. Though on instinct, she should want to move away, Ginny felt entitled to her new sanctuary. If he was uncomfortable, he could move. She would not bend and she would not break. This flat, as much as she didn’t like it, was the place that she would be healing. She had already claimed it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sound of wet lips meeting snapped her out of her thoughts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fucking foul, Malfoy. Couldn’t he tell that she was having a moment?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Finally, the tall woman broke away and said her goodbyes before sauntering past Ginny with the confidence of a runway model.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Clip clop clip clop</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Her heels hitting the pavement announced her departure. Suddenly Ginny felt immeasurably small. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nasty habit, Weasley.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She jerked her head up. He looked as messed up as he had been the night before. His grey eyes were bloodshot, his silver-blonde hair was tousled and though he was several feet away from her, she could note the distinct smell of alcohol on him. He leaned against the doorway. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ginny ignored his comment. She knew that she shouldn’t have taken up smoking. It was a nasty habit, what was she going to do? Agree with Draco Malfoy? No, never in a million years would she give him that satisfaction. He could insult her all he liked. She would enjoy as many cigarettes as she pleased even through his berating. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should be more careful with that, you know.” His eyes slid to her boot-covered foot. Right, the rocks. Of course he would have seen her stupid game. Ginny took whatever amusement she could get lately, even if it was as simple as a Transfiguration exercise. So he would be insulting her and taking away the one time that she had smiled that day. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Greedy bastard. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t want the Ministry up your arse.” Draco said, adding insult to injury.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Leave me alone, Malfoy.” She sighed, smoke escaping her lips. She stared out at the rainy street in front of her, hoping that he would take her ambivalence as a sign to bugger off. Cars sped past them, kicking up puddles as they careened down the still-busy street. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I do have someplace to be, actually.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You do?” She questioned, raising an eyebrow. “You can barely walk.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She looked back at him as she turned to stamp out her cigarette in the crowded ashtray. He was smiling but his eyes told a much different story. He made her miserable just looking at him. A dark cloud took hold in her mind. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Draco Malfoy was oozing suffering so readily in the air that she was afraid it could be contagious. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s a bottle of tequila somewhere out there with my name on it.” He said proudly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nice. That’s great. As if he needed any more alcohol. She had heard somewhere that the human body was made of 70% water. Strike that through for Draco, he was at minimum 70% liquor. Where on earth was this boy’s mother?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sweet.” She said tartly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And where are you off to?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She rolled her eyes. “Bed.” He looked offended. “It’s half past four.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another cigarette would have to wait, she wanted nothing more than to be in the safety of her flat now. It was plain to see that he wouldn’t stop bothering her until she removed herself from the equation. She strode toward the door, trying to implement some of the confidence that she had seen Draco’s dark-haired beauty radiate. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked at her as she passed, like a kicked puppy. “Goodnight.” </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Fuck tequila. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fucking fuck tequila.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Draco’s head hurt like a thousand Hippogriffs stampeding in his mind, claws ripping into his brain. His head was pounding like his heart had relocated, finding its new home in the confines of his thick skull. Vodka never wounded him so. How dare tequila betray him like this. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sunlight streamed in through the window. It was unwelcome. He preferred the dark. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Draco was still in his clothes from the night before, as per usual. Black trousers and a black sweater, shoes...still on under the covers. What a disappointment. He was thankful, though, that he hadn’t discarded his pants in some mysterious place. He was able to check the time at least. His silver pocket watch told him news that made him throw his head back against the pillows in frustration. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ten in the fucking morning. Much too early. Maybe four hours had passed since he had crawled his sorry ass into bed. Not nearly enough sleep. Also per usual. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His bedroom smelled of sex and sweat. He racked his brains, trying to remember if he had brought anyone home the night before. No memories fit the bill. He dreamt that he had spoken to Ginny Weasley outside the complex but there was no way in hell he could have managed that. On the plus side, if he had done so, she was long gone. Clever girl. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wait - no, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>escorted a lady to his flat the night before. Distinctly not Weasley. Dark curly hair, glittery eye makeup. She had been dreadfully boring though, an awful kisser but an overall good enough time. She had insisted on him walking her downstairs at the very least. He had obliged, although selfishly. This was when he must have ventured to the corner store for that wretched tequila that ruined his head so.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ah, so then he hadn’t dreamed that he had run into the Weasley girl again either. Lovely. He didn’t know what to make of that. His grey eyes flashed to his bedside in search of a morning drink. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A bottle of vodka stood there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Entirely empty. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He reached for it anyway, a silly part of him hoping that if he shook the bottle more liquor would appear in his grasp. It didn’t. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly his palms felt weak, shaky even. He felt his heartbeat quicken, his throat started to close up, threatening to cut off his airway completely. He would have to go out again. This would not do, it would not do at all. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He threw his comforter off of him, slipping out from between the layered blankets. Unsteady feet found purchase on the ground below, nearly tripping on a short glass bottle. The bottle rolled lazily underneath his bed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Draco didn’t notice that it was still half full. Nor did he notice that the half-drunk bottle of tequila joined a horde of brothers under his bed just like it, doomed to an eternity of being forgotten.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>___________________________________________</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ginny had received an unwelcome owl when she awoke that morning. Her own barn owl, Quaffle, was in the middle of trying to fight the foreign bird off before she recognized it as a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Daily Prophet</span>
  </em>
  <span> owl and intercepted. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Quaffle was a gift from her mother when she received the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Prophet </span>
  </em>
  <span>job. She was an older creature but respected Ginny’s wishes to not take many letters. It upset Ginny to see the beautiful owl posturing and picking fights at her expense, but she was grateful that no one was able to contact her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An owl from the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Prophet </span>
  </em>
  <span>on any day was uncomfortable to say the least. After the lackluster story she had submitted the night before, she expected to be told that she was sacked, ousted, done for. It was only a matter of time before the magical newspaper found her to be of no further use to them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She opened the envelope slowly, holding her breath in preparation for the dreaded words within. What would she do now? Move back home? No, she couldn’t handle the shame in that. It was shameful enough to accept a loan for a flat from an ex-boyfriend but to move back home would break her. Every other redheaded Weasley child was out on their own by now. Bill with Fleur at Shell Cottage, Charlie back in Romania with his dragons, Percy owned a condo in London near the Ministry, George lived above the twins’ shop, Ron and Hermione - well, she wasn’t sure exactly where they were by now. Last she had heard they were moving into a home and out of their flat. They definitely weren’t at the Burrow though. She was the youngest, but that didn’t exempt her from leaving the nest too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No one else had needed to move back home. Ginny Weasley would not be the first. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The words weren’t bad. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The stunning cursive that adhered to the parchment in her hands brought...good news, not bad? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Ginevra, </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Wonderful work on your recent assignments. We would like you to attend the London-area Quidditch tournament this weekend. The hours will vary, however, you will be compensated for the overtime on this project. Further details will be on your desk. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Sincerely, </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Marfirtha Hollins</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Not bad. Overtime compensation, a compliment on her recent work? Ginny called that an overwhelming success. A strange wave of confidence rushed over her, one she hadn’t felt in quite some time. As much as she hated her job, it felt good to be praised. As much as she liked to lurk in the shadows, it felt good to be noticed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She would miss her own junior league matches this weekend, though she probably wouldn’t have gotten much play time anyway. Every match she had covered this week had gone far over time, she hadn’t been able to make a single practice. That meant she definitely needed to get her arse out of bed and go now. A glance at the Muggle electric clock told her that she was already running late. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tossing the letter onto her nightstand, Ginny bent at the waist and began to search for her discarded emerald green Quidditch uniform in the heaping pile of laundry that graced her bedroom floor. She grimaced at the mud stains that adorned it, but she simply had no time to waste with scourging them from her jersey with her wand. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One of the many annoying conditions of her residency in a half-Muggle, half-wizard apartment complex was a strict ‘No Apparating Rule’. Guests could come and go as they pleased through apparation, especially large parties as long as the walls were charmed to keep out any additional noise. She understood the reasoning behind the rule, normal traffic through the building allowed the Muggles to not suspect anything off about their neighbors. How would it look if half of the building seemingly never came and never went?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She hastily Transfigured her broom into a book and threw a loose zip-up sweatshirt over her Quidditch top to obscure the logo from any prying eyes. There, she was a Muggle football player, no more, no less.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A black metal insulated cup filled with hot coffee as she grabbed it, an invention crafted by her trickster twin brothers for her birthday the year before the war. Hah, the Muggles thought that they had it good with their Carrigs - Keurigs? Something like that. Bless those pranking gits, they really were geniuses. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Were</span>
  </em>
  <span> geniuses. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ah, that word stung. Past tense was never good when referring to the twins. It made her heart ache with the Fred-sized hole that would never heal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She locked the door to her flat manually as she left, tucking the broom-turned-book under her arm as she pulled her unruly ginger hair up into a ponytail. Ginny chose to jog down the stairs to warm up her tired body. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One flight, two flights, three flights passed. Her legs felt loose. She had a good feeling about today. A new assignment, a day full of actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>playing</span>
  </em>
  <span> Quidditch rather than watching rubbish semi-pro matches. She shivered at the thought of the wind rushing through her hair, kissing her cheeks as she soared through the air, a Quaffle tucked under her arm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then a silver blonde bullet flew into her in the stairwell. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had been running too. Fools, both of them. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Boiling hot coffee splashed upward in an arc, scalding Ginny’s cheeks and chest. A cry caught in her throat as her eyes searched for her assailant. The tall, thin form of Draco Malfoy was toppled over on the opposite side of the landing from her, clinging to a brown paper bag for dear life. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eager, burning hands searched for her wand. She felt the wooden form of it, still tucked into the waistband of her shorts. Her fingers curved around it, her safety net.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fuck, she couldn’t do anything here to fix it. She was in public. There were cameras in the stairwells. Hot coffee ran down her body, reaching her legs. Curious footsteps approached, most likely a Muggle trying to determine what all the fuss was about. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Grey eyes met hers. She hadn’t been paying attention.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Malfoy was tugging at her burning hands, trying to get her to come with him. His paper bag lay abandoned on the concrete landing, her metal coffee cup had rolled to join it. Her broom-turned-book was in his other hand, as if he had known that it was more important to her than just a book. Time had seemingly stopped and was beginning to start again as she soaked in the details around her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please, just trust me.” He said, his eyes were turned away from her now, angled in the direction that he was trying to take her. He reeked like alcohol and sex but something told Ginny that he was sober. His face displayed his tiredness, yet his eyes were clear. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She didn’t trust him. They were the words of an absolute imbecile. Not a bone in her body could ever trust him after what he and his foul </span>
  <em>
    <span>pureblood Slytherin stuck up </span>
  </em>
  <span>family had done in the Second Wizarding War. A Death Eater, former or not, would never earn her trust. Directly or indirectly, he had killed her brother, her friends, her peers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She never would trust him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She went with him only because she wanted to be out of the stupid stairwell, away from prying Muggle eyes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That’s how she ended up in a Muggle janitor’s closet with Draco Malfoy. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The door slammed behind them, leaving the two wizards in the dark, surrounded by the overwhelming smell of Muggle cleaning products. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the absolute fuck, Malfoy?” Ginny hissed through gritted teeth. Her skin was blistering at an alarming rate. She couldn’t see very well in the dark supply closet but she knew that her injured flesh was peeling back from the boiling hot coffee that had kissed her skin just moments before in the stairwell. “Are you not content with ruining your own damn life? You have to drag me down with you, do you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut </span>
  <em>
    <span>up</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Weasley. I need a light.” He shifted in the dark, knocking over a mop or a broom behind him with a loud </span>
  <em>
    <span>thwack</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He adjusted, trying to avoid toppling over more supplies, only sending more flying as a result. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A light?” Her nostrils flared, her skin was on fire. “I am in </span>
  <em>
    <span>pain</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I’m not smoking with you in a supply closet. Have you lost your mind?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A heavy sigh came from Draco’s direction. She couldn’t quite see him but she could see the shadow of  his shoulders sag in the dark with defeat. “Not a lighter, you dolt, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>light. </span>
  </em>
  <span>You’re a witch still, aren’t you? Or have you gone full blown Muggle-lover like your idiot father?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh. Right. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His words stung slightly, she had hoped that Draco had moved past petty insults in the years since she had last seen him, but she supposed he was just returning the favor for her own venomous words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She moved her shaky hand to the pocket of her sweatshirt and procured her yew wand. Painful fingers gripped the spiral handle of her wand. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of hearing her utter the word she thought it instead. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Lumos. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The tip of her wand filled the dingy supply closet with soft light. Her skin was in worse shape than she thought, but Malfoy was already making passes over her blistered hands with his own wand, slowly repairing the angry red skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re lucky that I paid attention in Charms even through Flitwick’s incessant droning.” He said deeply. Her eyes couldn’t decide whether to watch his face or the circular movement of his wand hovering above her hands. She felt as if she were living in a dream, though the anger and pain that she felt was far too real for such a thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not lucky for anything.” She seethed. The magic that flowed from him against her skin felt like soothing ice against the hot coffee burns.  “I am fully capable. I can handle myself.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words eased her mind. She was not a helpless damsel in distress, she never had been. She had thrown three men out of her life for assuming so. First, Michael Corner for his childish moping after she beat Ravenclaw in a Quidditch match, then Dean Thomas who had insisted upon trying to help her through the portrait hole. And Harry- oh, Harry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco pressed his lips into a thin line, ignoring her outburst and concentrating on healing her wounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I paid attention in Charms too, you know.” She said, correcting the record. For some reason she could not understand, it bothered her to be ignored by him. Stupid, arrogant Malfoy. She had half a mind to pull her hand back from him and storm out of the janitor’s closet. If it wasn’t for the sweet relief that his healing spell gave her, she would have. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ginny rolled her eyes. Of course he knew, he would have known everything about her. He was spying on them all during his time at Hogwarts. He was a Death Eater, knew their ins and outs, their strengths and weaknesses. Draco Malfoy would know that she paid attention in Charms, but not for any keen interest in her academic life. Not to find out if she received good marks or was a bright young witch or could successfully levitate objects. He would know that she paid attention in Charms because he needed to know whether or not she was a threat. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her stomach turned inside out. “Right. Well, could you hurry it up? I have someplace to be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ginny felt his grey eyes examine her coffee-stained attire. His wand moved to scourge the stain away, removing the streaks of mud that had adorned her jersey as well in one fluid movement. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still playing Quidditch?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not here for small talk.” She snapped. He flinched at her tone and volume, his cheek pulled up just slightly toward his eye. A subtle movement, but a flinch all the same. Something about that flinch softened her anger from its raging inferno to a dull roar. She had felt that same movement on her own face too many times to count. Hundreds of times an intense shift in volume had bothered her, the quick change from quiet to loud brought back subconscious memories of blasts, of screams, of the shouting of Death Eaters as they marched forward to hurt the people that she loved. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bits and pieces of dialogue from the battle would come back to her in that brief moment of terror, usually when Harry would raise his voice at her after he woke from a troublesome nightmare. She could remember it like it was yesterday, how loud it had been when she was sidestepping a Killing Curse while fighting Bellatrix Lestrange, her mother’s voice booming as she shoved her out of the way to take over fighting the horrible witch herself. Luna and Hermione had held her back while she watched her mother fight through the crashing and the explosions. The sound of Bellatrix asking her mother what would happen to her children when she died like Fred did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” She said finally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes?” Draco took pause. He was just about finished with mending her wounds. She couldn’t deny it, he was adept with healing charms much to her surprise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I’m still playing Quidditch. It’s just the junior leagues though, nothing special.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds fun.” Draco said cooly. Something behind his eyes told Ginny that he was jealous. She suddenly remembered that Draco too had been a talented Quidditch player himself. Though Harry had always complained of Draco buying his way on the team in their second year, Ginny had never thought so. Sure, a full team’s worth of Nimbus 2001s must have sweetened the deal, but even as a first year Ginny knew that there was no other Slytherin that was more deserving than Malfoy for the open Seeker spot. She had watched enough Quidditch in her short 11 years to know that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She never did have the honor of playing against Malfoy. Her spot on the Gryffindor Quidditch team had been earned in her 4th year after the Slytherin-Gryffindor match due to his provocation getting Harry suspended for the year. She couldn’t remember why Draco would not have played against her in her 5th year though. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was… ill, remember?” He said, as if reading her mind. Ill, right. No, he was not ill. He was a Death Eater. Draco had paid someone to replace him on the Slytherin Quidditch team, she remembered Harry telling her that. It had been Harper. Harper had replaced him and what a terrible, useless idiot he was. His stupidity had cost Slytherin the entire game. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should’ve chosen a better replacement.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco shook his head. His hand reached for the door, a signal to her that he was done with the conversation. It was too close, too personal. She had struck a nerve.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whoever I picked wouldn’t have been a match for you anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ginny blanched. “I only played Seeker in my 4th year.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I seem to remember a certain someone scoring so many goals that the Snitch wouldn’t have mattered anyway,” He said, tucking away his wand and slipping out of the janitors closet. Ginny squinted at the sudden change in light. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She frowned. That certain someone had been her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I suppose this would be your er- broom.” Draco added, handing her the transfigured book. He bent down to retrieve his abandoned brown paper bag full of liquor and the coffee mug that had wounded her so. His hand brushed hers as he handed her the enchanted mug. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ginny was surprised at the warmth of his skin. She had expected Draco's hands to be as cold as he was. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Quidditch had been as exhilarating as she had hoped it would be. It had been far too long since the rush of the wind had run through her red hair, sweeping it behind her. She handled the Quaffle as if she hadn’t taken a day off of practice, scoring goal after goal through the high rings. The broom below her felt like a piece of her body, moving with her seamlessly.  </p><p>Her team wasn’t bad, but they weren’t necessarily good either. They were true junior league players, just about as good as they had been at Hogwarts. She could feel the jealousy in the stares of her benched teammates on the sidelines, huddled together in the grass far below her. Ginny Weasley didn’t belong on a juniors team, that much was obvious to everyone. </p><p>Maybe one day she would consider herself...healed enough to take on the responsibility of semi-professional Quidditch. Maybe she would even make it to pro. If only she could get her own head out of her arse and stop being so fucking traumatized. </p><p>Over the past two years Ginny had found that trauma worked in funny ways. For her, any shred of responsibility sent her hurtling the other direction. She couldn’t handle it, the thought of people relying on her or expecting anything of substance from her. Not when she could break down at any moment. Even though playing Quidditch as a profession would be much less of a bitch than reporting on Quidditch, it was lower stakes to her. She didn’t give a shit about the <em> Prophet </em> other than the Galleons that they gave her.</p><p>The worst part of it was that she had received offers, only to have to immediately decline them. After her first junior league game, the Head Coach of one of southern England’s semi-professional offered her a fully paid position as a Chaser. She had frozen, clammed up, said no and walked away without explanation. Not ready. She was probably not ready now either.</p><p>No matter, out of sight out of mind. She didn’t need the glory, the fame, the name recognition. Hah, she was not Draco Malfoy. She just needed a broom between her knees and a Quaffle under her arm. She would play for fucking Slytherin House if she had to.</p><p>She was grateful to get out of the city too. The air smelled fresh, unlike the roughness of the city. They were in a hidden clearing about an hour outside of the city. The grass was vivid green and wet with dew. It lacked the beauty and the character of the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch but it made no difference to her. Flying freed her caged soul. It made her feel brave in a way that being on the ground couldn’t. Frankly, she wasn’t sure if she would ever truly feel brave with two feet planted on the floor ever again. </p><p>It was one thing to be strong in the heat of the moment. To stand tall, looking death in the face while protecting your friends and family was nothing compared to facing the aftermath of it all. There was no adrenaline, no pure unadulterated fear to ward off any doubt. Pure fight or flight took over in war and for Ginny, the answer had always been fight. Now, though the war was over the instinct remained. And Ginny’s brain chose flight. It always chose flight. </p><p>She may not be drinking herself into oblivion like her silver-haired neighbor, but the result was the very same thing. Ginny had described Draco as floundering. She was right there with him, broken into a million pieces just the same. </p><p>One step at a time, her mother had written in a recent letter. She would take a step today, she decided. Upon her return to her flat she would send an owl to Luna Lovegood. A third individual would be allowed to contact her. She was ready for that. Ready to bare her soul to one more person. </p><p>She just hoped that this moment of bravery would translate once more when she was back on the ground. Luna deserved to hear from her too. She hadn’t seen her friend from Ravenclaw in awhile. Ginny hoped that shutting her out hadn’t made things worse for her.</p><p>Quaffle tucked under her arm, she swooped in an arc over her teammates and aimed for the hoop.</p><p> </p><p>________________________________<br/><br/>His mother had visited him shortly after he had scrambled back up the stairs to the safety of his flat. On and on she droned about the state of the world, how many of their former peers had been imprisoned and how their families were doing. Draco tuned it all out, he didn’t give a shit about them. Not one shred of sympathy existed in his body for Yaxley’s family or for Selwyn’s widow and young child. </p><p>They had been some of the worst of them, fully complicit and willing to do the Dark Lord’s bidding. Yaxley had nearly single-handedly created the Muggle-Born Registration Program. The fact that his mother would discuss the fates of their families as mere gossip and not as examples sickened him. Their families didn’t matter to him, though they were innocents. Everyone was suffering, including him. Why on earth should he care about them?</p><p>Draco was a monster, sure. Not a single person on this earth would disagree with him, save his mother. But at the very least he could say that he had never chosen his path. He had been born into it, destined - or cursed - with the burden of joining the Dark Lord’s ranks. His father who had once served willingly had hoped not to be involved in the Second Wizarding War to spare Draco from this responsibility, but once you entered there was no going back.</p><p>There was never any going back. Though they had no master, he could never shed the title or the allegiance that he had bound himself to. He was forever one of them. Forever a Death Eater. Though the Dark Mark on his arm had been replaced with a pale, raised scar after the death of the Dark Lord, he wanted to scourge it from his skin even further. He would sacrifice his entire left forearm to rid himself of his past. It was no use. Even if he did go to such lengths, the stain on his soul would never be removed. </p><p>This much he knew even from his interaction with the Weasley girl. There was no going back for him. Even in the middle of trying to be helpful, he would never be seen as anything more than a storybook villain. </p><p>His head was throbbing, from his hangover, from his mother’s prattling, or from his own depressed inner monologue, he had no clue. Prior to his mother’s visit he had been planning to drown his sorrows at home for a change. Spice things up a bit. He glanced at the three bottles of Russian Standard vodka that adorned his nightstand and sighed. No, drinking alone tonight would be too sad. He was up for a bit of a party now to pull him out of his somber mood. He needed the roar of music to push away the thoughts that fouled his pathetic mind, otherwise he would be here all night, <strike>crying</strike> ruminating. </p><p>He rolled his sorry self out of bed, standing on two steady feet for the first time in awhile. With the disruption of the Weasley girl and the hours-long fiasco that was his mother, it had been several hours since he had last had even a sip of alcohol. Sobriety felt uncomfortable. He wanted to crawl out of his own skin to be rid of it. A shot of vodka took the edge off. Fuck <em> Felix Felicis </em>, Draco had liquid courage bottled up for 15 Muggle pounds. </p><p>He knew this now, after two weeks of mishearing the Muggle shopkeeper at the corner store and giving him the red bill with the Muggle queen on it and the number 50 in the corner. One day the kind man had taken pity on him, instructing him that it was one of the yellow 10 bills and one of the blue 5 bills instead. It made no difference to him. His supply was unlimited, he was just glad that the shopkeeper sold to him no matter how inebriated he was when he visited him. </p><p>They had formed a kind of unspoken friendship over the few months he had lived there. Probably the only friend that he had made since he was 11 and it was a homely Muggle corner store owner. It was unique too, his previous friendships had not been earned, they had been given to him by his status as a Malfoy. The sons of his father’s Death Eater friends had flocked to him like birds that very first day at Hogwarts. He had been lucky that some of the bonds he had formed were genuine. Blaise was a true friend. Crabbe and Goyle, not so much. </p><p>Draco pulled his wand out and summoned a fresh pair of slacks from his drawers. He changed quickly, thinking about how few friends he really had increased his need to get out of his flat. He felt the walls closing in on him, pressing down on his chest. </p><p>He took pause in front of the mirror on top of his dresser. His skin looked pallid and grey, his eyes were sunken in and ringed with blotchy purple stains. His hair was too long, too messy, in desperate need of a haircut. </p><p>None of it mattered. All that mattered was his need to forget.  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Three letters sat neatly in a pile on the edge of her open window. Quaffle squeaked at her gently, an affirmation that the letters were all from verified senders. Ginny languished at the bird’s kindness. She didn’t deserve such courtesy from such a gentle creature.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Leafing through the letters with shaky hands, her eager eyes soaked in the words from the three women who she had decided to trust her fragile heart with. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Luna wanted to visit her. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surely she would, Luna hadn’t seen her in ages. A weight was lifted off of Ginny’s back that there were no hard feelings for her lack of contact. Luna understood, she loved her anyway.</span>
</p>
<p><span>Fleur was entering her last month of pregnancy.</span><span><br/></span> <span>She could imagine the blonde’s thick French accent in her written words. “Zis child does not ztop kicking me, day and night. I will know no peace ever again.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Her mother was … well, she didn’t quite know yet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She had sent her a Gusher, trademark of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. A pink, softer toned version of a Howler, initially designed by her brothers to be sent to silly school crushes and enjoyed in private. Her mother had started sending Gushers occasionally, assuming that Ginny would find it relieving to hear her voice. It made her cringe. It made her think of the Burrow.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My Ginny!” the pink letter squealed, morphing into a heart shaped face with a neat row of paper teeth. “How are you dear? Er- you don’t have to answer that! But things have been wonderful around here. Your father is doing excellently at work. He has been receiving praise on a daily basis which has been giving us some hope in terms of that promotion he has had his eye on!”</span>
</p>
<p><span>She stiffened at the mention of her father. Fuck, she missed him.</span><span><br/></span> <span>“Your sister-in-law is about to pop! You should really see her, the skinny little thing is just massive, it’s such a joy. A baby, Ginny! Can you believe it? I do hope it’s a girl. We need more women around here, we are so outnumbered you know. Ah fuck, I’m running out of time - well just know that your family loves you very much and we miss you dearly -- but no pressure! No, never any pressure! Carry on, darling! We have been reading your Quidditch articles in the </span><em><span>Prophet</span></em><span>, wonderful job Ginny!”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>Ginny couldn’t tell you why the idea of seeing people she knew and loved so much made her want to disappear into the night completely. It made her want to cut her hair, dye it black and move to the farthest corner of the United Kingdom and live in a tiny shack by the sea. Perhaps it was the reminder of the events that had occurred that she couldn’t handle. After so long of living with Harry and his misery, Ginny was unsure if she could hold a straight face while sitting across from her blonde, airy-headed friend with the knowledge of the torture that she had endured at Malfoy Manor while Ginny had been stuck at Hogwarts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Those months without Luna had been torturous. She had thought her dead after she was abducted over winter break. Luna was a reminder of her own helplessness. She was so small. Unable to help her own fucking friends, trapped in that prison of a castle. All she could do was graffiti the walls in the middle of the night with Dumbledore’s Army recruitment messages out of defiance like a stubborn child.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ginny didn’t deserve to feel this pain. She had not been immune to the punishments doled out by the Carrows. She too had felt the sting of the Cruciatus Curse, but she had deserved it. She knew that her actions would earn her detentions, that Neville would have to perform the torture curse on her as a punishment to both of them. But never abducted, left to rot in the basement of Malfoy Manor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, that was worse. Luna had not asked for that, not deserved it. She couldn’t look her friend in those crystal blue eyes and pretend that she was okay. More, she couldn’t look her friend in the eyes and see that she was okay. If Luna was okay and she wasn’t… Ginny didn’t know what she would do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At least Malfoy had been a blessing in disguise. Though he was an unsightly reminder of her past, he was an example of someone else that was still visibly tormented by the Second Wizarding World. He was her sole example of someone else who was not capable of pretending. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Today, Ginny would especially not be okay. She was fortunate that she was not required to visit the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Daily Prophet</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s office in Diagon Alley on a daily basis. Her supervisor had been gracious to allow weekly check-ins so long as her articles were all submitted on a daily basis. Otherwise, she would be required to commute each day. Today though, she would need to pick up her weekend assignment details from the desk that she shared with one of the interns. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Perhaps she should have put off opening those letters, but it was too late now. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She dressed quickly after taking a cold Muggle shower. She wore all black, per usual. A form-fitting pencil skirt that brushed her knees and a high-necked black sweater that would not look too out of place in her Muggle environment nor in the confines of Diagon Alley. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>She wicked the moisture away from her long ginger hair with a flick of her wand and set to brushing it out by hand, avoiding looking at herself in the mirror for more than just a quick check of her appearance. She knew that she looked like shit, no matter what she did to try to spruce herself up. Her face was gaunt, her eyes were puffy and blotchy no matter how many hours it had been since she had last cried. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The walk to the Leaky Cauldron had not been half as bad as she had expected it to be. Over the past few days, she had grown so accustomed to running into Draco Malfoy she had almost expected him to be in her path. She made quick work of the walk, slinking through the busy London streets like she had been doing so her entire life. Fake confidence worked for her. She could do this.  Nose turned in the air, hands shoved into the pockets of her Muggle coat, Ginny strode in the direction of the wall that separated the Wizarding World from the Muggle one. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>_________________________________</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Come along and get some ice cream, won’t you, Draco?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Huh? A soft ice-cold hand grazed his cheek.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Draco, wake up.” A female voice this time, the first voice was male. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes flickered open lazily. Fuck it was bright, the sun was blazing through his bedroom window. Daytime then. He knew the two people that were now in his bedroom. He knew them all too well. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Crouched at his side was the familiar face of his mother, black and white hair neatly parted and tied back. Her eyes were dark, wrought with concern. Her forehead mirrored them, wrinkled with deep lines of worry. She looked like hell, like she had been crying for hours prior to coming here. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good morning, princess.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blaise. Draco knew that voice from anywhere, but he hadn’t yet taken a look at him to confirm that it was indeed him. Sure enough, his closest friend stood tall at the end of the bed. His shrewd, slanted eyes held Draco with contempt. His mouth was marred with a frigid smirk. He was judging him, and rightfully so, Draco conceded. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Zabini.” Draco said coldly, propping himself up onto his elbows. “You look awfully bright and cheery.” He didn’t. Not one bit. Blaise Zabini looked disgusted, out of place, far above the conditions that he was presently in. He looked as if he would rather be a million miles away from here. Blaise would rather be on another planet than in the company of Draco in his current condition.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It smells like piss in here.” Blaise retorted, malice dripped from his mouth. His lips then pressed into a flat line as if holding back any further insults behind a locked Gringotts bank vault. There were likely a slew of them held in that wonder of a mind. Draco’s vice was alcohol. His was vanity. It wasn’t hard to take a guess at what else Blaise wanted to say to him, how he wanted to tear Draco down only to build him back up again. That was just how the man operated. Insult first, then fix. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Draco didn’t notice the glare that his mother had sent Zabini’s way, nor the way that Blaise shrugged off her ire with ease. There was an agreement there between them. A condition, it seemed, that Blaise was walking on a tight leash in order to have contact with him. He wondered what the bargain had been, what Blaise had supplied his mum with to see him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What is going on here?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blaise sighed, pinching his eyebrows together with his thumb and forefinger. “We...are going out. For ice cream.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Going out. For ice cream. His mother and his best friend had interrupted his liquor-filled slumber for ...ice cream. He must be dreaming, there was no way in the world that this was happening. A slight pinch to his thigh underneath the covers confirmed that he was indeed, unfortunately, awake. He felt his nostrils flare with irritation. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It doesn’t have to be ice cream.” His mother said briskly, placing an icy hand on his bare forearm. “It could be anything, Draco. - Just please, come with us. We need to go somewhere. You need to get out of this flat, you need fresh air. You need human contact.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What time is it?” He asked, sitting up fully. His mother frowned, presuming that he was not paying attention.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Noon.” Blaise’s voice was tart, clipped. His posture was uncomfortable, arms tucked behind his back. Splendid. He had wandered back to his flat around seven in the morning. Five hours of restless sleep and he was about to be dragged back out into the world. They wouldn’t let him drink either. He didn’t even have to ask. “Get dressed.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Draco looked down at himself. Right, he was just in his underwear. That would need to change if they were insisting on taking him out. Narcissa sighed and stood, smoothing her coat with her hands to strip it of any wrinkles. She walked past Blaise to Draco’s dresser to pull him an outfit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Blaise, will you get him some water? I’m sure it will help brighten his mood.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blaise nodded and with a flick of his wand a drinking glass from the kitchen flew into his hand. The sound of the cabinet smacking shut startled him, making him jump.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Aguamenti.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Blaise said gruffly, conjuring water from the tip of his wand. He handed Draco the now-full glass. It was cold in Draco’s shaky hand, but he drank greedily. His mother was right, it did brighten his mood. He felt more awake and slightly more human.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His mother dropped a folded pair of pants and a black sweater at his feet with a sad smile. She crossed her hands over one another, patiently waiting for a sign of life from her son.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you, mum.” Humiliation tinged his voice. He hated being treated like a child, though he was grateful for the assistance. Fucking hell, he needed it. He was a walking, talking mess… well, maybe more of a stumbling, mumbling mess.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Once he was dressed and she had decided that his hair was neat enough for the public eye, his mother grabbed his arm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Draco felt the familiar pull behind his navel as she apparated the trio away.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I never liked ice cream.” Draco lamented, slapping his spoon against the chilled dessert.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blaise rolled his eyes from across the table. “Liar.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Draco, why would you lie like that? To a friend and for no reason? What has happened to you?” His mother rattled off in quick succession. She pointed at him with her own spoon in an accusatory fashion, her black eyes narrowed in disapproval. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fucking hell, he disappointed her even over </span>
  <em>
    <span>ice cream</span>
  </em>
  <span> for God’s sake. It made him wonder if he could disappoint her under even stranger circumstances. In how many millions of situations could Draco Malfoy possibly be a complete and utter failure? A disgrace to his family name, to his house, to his mother. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mmm, probably too many to count. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is just so…” He trailed off. He could already see his mother anticipating his words meant to wound her. Her slight wince gave him pause, the curl of her mouth upward as if preparing for the brunt of his attack on her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was trying her best really, it was more than he could say of his cowardly fucking father. But his head hurt. And he wanted to be cruel. He wanted to spew utter bullshit, wanted to hurt people with his mouth, wanted to weaponize his own self-hatred and impose it onto those around him. He could turn every negative thought he had about himself into one of those attacks, it would be easy and it would take the edge off. Misplace his pain and give it to another. Just for a moment, just to make his head stop pounding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what?” Blaise snapped. It was his friend, not his mother whose disapproval answered his thoughts. “This is so what, Draco? Not as fun as drinking yourself to death? Not as fun as meandering among the streets of London?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“N-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not as fun as fucking Muggles in the room your mother pays for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Narcissa shrunk at those words. Her shoulders beared downward with the harshness of them. She looked small, frail even in her seat next to Blaise. She was staring nowhere in particular. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Draco rolled his eyes, twirling his spoon around in his now-quite-melty ice cream. He focused his gaze on the back of a bald man’s shiny head across the ice cream parlor. Anything to distract himself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t talk like that in front of my mother.” He said through clenched teeth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Admiring yourself in the mirror of that fat man’s skull? It’s nothing she doesn’t already know.” Blaise asked, a dark eyebrow raised. He had leaned forward on the table now, resting on his elbows. Draco had seen the tactic used plenty of times, people would move physically closer to him to reason with him, to seem emotionally closer. He fucking hated being patronized. By his best friend of all people. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, stop it Blaise. He’s not going to respond well to that kind of talk. He never has. Insulting a Malfoy man’s ego only turns them spineless.” Narcissa said, holding her hand up. Her motherly concern had been washed away and replaced by a blank canvas. Draco couldn’t read her for the first time in his entire life. He had never in his life been surprised by his mother. Narcissa Malfoy wasn’t a dim woman, but she was a predictable one. Her values were rigid, more solid in foundation than a loyal Hufflepuffs. She lived by a veritable formula.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blaise looked at his mother as if he was lying in wait. As if holding his words of malice back on a purely conditional basis, as long as what Narcissa said met his standards of how Draco should be spoken to, he would let her speak. Draco resisted the urge to set his friend straight, to tell him to treat her with respect. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to Gringotts, Draco dear.” She said softly, folding her thin ring-adorned hands in front of her. “And I will be withdrawing your last month’s allowance. After this month, unless you pull yourself together, you will no longer be a member of this family. You will no longer have friends to call your own. You will no longer have access to this family’s funds to subsidize your misery and your afflictions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You will no longer have access to this family’s funds to subsidize your misery and your afflictions. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>________________________</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
    <br/>
  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ginny was okay. She was going to be okay anyway. New assignment retrieved from her desk at the Prophet, she had already begun to embark on her way home, weaving through the crowded streets of Diagon Alley. For the first time in a while, she was both excited and proud of herself. She hadn’t broken down, hadn’t walked here with silent tears streaming down her face, hadn't felt like a ball of nerves on the brink of explosion. </span>
</p><p><span>She was looking forward to a weekend of reporting, looking forward to the additional responsibility. </span><span><br/></span> <span>But the familiar faces hurt her head. They brought back memories she almost couldn’t handle. Each fucking smiling fucking familiar face made her want to break apart into a million pieces. Each person she recognized threatened to ruin all of her progress. Each second that passed threatened to send her spiraling in the middle of Diagon Alley. </span></p><p>
  <span>Hushed whispers caught her ears as she made her way towards the Leaky Cauldron,  making the tips of them flush red with embarrassment. “That Weasley girl!” she had heard. “The redhead, the one with Harry Potter!” another excited voice quipped. In that instance she wanted to cut all her hair off. Chop it into a short neat bob like she had when she was a girl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or maybe she would just fucking dye it blue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>God, what she would give to never be associated with that name again. If she never had to hear that sentence again in her life she would die happy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was her own person. Not his person. She belonged to herself. She did not belong to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not to</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Harry</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Potter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought made her turn on her heels, she was suddenly full of moments of bravery these days. Her unexpected movement sent her crashing into a poor old woman who had been trailing a little too close behind her. After a quick apology, Ginny made her way down from where she had come from, back into the depths of Diagon Alley. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> She wasn’t done in Diagon Alley today after all. Gringotts Bank was calling her name. Her bank balance was calling her name. She needed to know it, needed to calculate the exact day she would be able to pay Harry James Potter back and never speak to him again - well, hopefully. It was for her healing, she told herself. She needed to stop thinking about it. Stop doing the maths in her head every time her head hit the pillow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe healing was peeling herself away from him once and for all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe if she got rid of his loan she would be okay again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was irrational, she knew. Ginny had asked him for the money because she wasn’t okay. She had needed space to grow and to be okay. But for some odd reason, she couldn’t shake the thought that with the loan gone, all the pieces would snap into place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Like Magic, she laughed to herself as she approached the massive wizarding bank. Maybe if she did this it would be like magic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then three all-too-familiar faces crumbled that mirage. All dressed in black. All looking smug or in pain or she didn’t fucking care. They weren’t supposed to be here. Weren’t supposed to ruin this for her. This trip to the bank, as silly as it sounded, was for her. She was doing this - stepping out of her comfort zone, pushing herself - for her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the tears that had been threatening to spill for hours that day finally spilled over. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And Ginny Weasley lost her shit.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thank you so much for reading! apologies for the tardy update!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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